An Ex-Boyfriend and a Wedding

I did the thing I think a lot of us do in college: I dated a perfectly nice boy because I thought that’s what I was supposed to do. We were in the same friend group in our campus ministry and church, and we happened to be the only single ones. I needed a date for the Sadie Hawkins dance, so I picked him, mostly so our core group could fit in a square dance. We had a good time.

Fast forward six months, and he is my boyfriend. Because he’s supposed to be, right? That’s how this all works.

We were nineteen and very Christian. There were a lot of rules about curfews and being alone or not, and how much physical touch was allowed. We were each other’s first relationship and we had no idea what we were doing. It was cute and weird and fun and hard, as these things are.

I knew, I think, about myself already on some level. There had been that one really pretty girl in high school, the effortlessly cool camp counselors, the movies I kept returning to. I had tried to broach the conversation a couple times but had been met with the all-too-common language about sin, and maybe if I just gave my desires to God with a little more zeal…

So, I ignored my suspicions and convinced myself that if I tried a little harder to be the right kind of woman of God, if I waited long enough, then I would meet the man of my dreams and all would be well. 

Enter this boy. He was kind and gentle and creative and smart and considerate. He was a double major: engineering and music. He made me laugh and was a fiercely loyal friend. If I had to date a man to be a good Christian, he was a good bet.

Dating him was nice. That is, having a boyfriend was nice. I liked mini golfing and getting ice cream and holding hands on walks. I liked texting and calling and having a cheerleader at all times. I liked how comfortable the idea of being taken care of was. But there was always something lurking at the back of my brain that said this didn’t quite fit.

The first and only time he tried to kiss me, I panicked, swerved the attempt, and immediately kicked him out of my apartment. A friend asked me how the relationship was going two months in, and I cried. It feels miserable, I said, but nothing is wrong. She asked me if I loved him. No, I said, I don’t know. This can’t be what it feels like. I don’t even like him as much as some of my friends.

I broke up with him after three months, including the winter semester break during which I said I wanted space and not to talk much. I think I explained to him that I just didn’t feel ready, that I wanted to figure out how to be a person a little more before bringing someone else into it. Develop my walk with Christ. All the usual talking points. He was understanding. We both cried. 

We remained in the same social circle, so we still hung out often. We were much better friends than we ever were partners. 

I struggle even now to articulate it beyond the confusing experience of being deeply Christian and maybe gay in your late teens and early twenties. 

And now, we jump in time nearly a decade. The third person in that little college friend group is getting married. The first couple already had a child. We have all been to all the weddings. It’s been four years since the last one.

I am a bridesmaid. The bride was and is the ringleader of the group, the first person to set me up with this boy. The day before the wedding, I’m helping with place settings. I see his name and shoot him a “See you tomorrow!” text. He likes the message immediately. As I’m walking down the aisle at the ceremony, he grins at me and winks. 

We catch up at the reception: parents, siblings, work. The nephew I met while we were together is now a fourth grader. My grandmother he met has since passed. We have good jobs. We dip into politics and movies and our mutual favorite podcasts, remembering how easy conversations were. We talk instead of dance until we are the only people still seated.

The slow song comes on. We both register it and try to continue our conversation without being weird. Eventually he just stares at me and says, “Should we finish the song?” as he offers his hand. We do, and we’re still terrible dancers.

For a moment, I see both versions of us – both versions of me – then and now. I am dancing (poorly) with this same boy, but I’m hardly the same person. That simmering far-away fear that maybe I like girls and don’t like boys is no longer far away and no longer a fear, it’s just a thing that is true about me.

The me from college hardly looks like me. Now, I keep my hair short, and under my bridesmaid dress I’m wearing men’s boxers and a sports bra. It is so much easier to dance with this objectively great guy without feeling like I have to force myself to be attracted to him. I am not failing at my faith or my life because I happen to be gay.

I wish I could hold my nineteen-year-old self and tell her she doesn’t need to try so hard to earn affection. In fact, she doesn’t need to try at all. There’s freedom on the other side of the closet door. What a gift it is to know God better, to love the Lord with all of my heart and soul and mind, even the parts that I think are disqualifying.

They’re not. God promises that over and over and over again, and God keeps promises. Shame, and my desperate attempts to circumvent it, are only ever helpful as a measure of the immense grace on offer. There is so much grace. Let yourself receive it.

The boy asks me at some point over the course of the evening what I’ve been learning about Jesus lately, because of course he would, because of course that’s one of the reasons I chose to date him. I tell him about the kindness of God in the strange human experience of time. God is still there, still paying attention, still remarkably close.

How sweet that I will get to be at the weddings of my most favorite people year after year, meet their children, participate in their lives. The first boy I ever dated will still love me – and not like that – and when we say goodbye at the end of the night, we hug tightly and promise to visit next time we’re near.

Praise the Lord for friendship that is deeper, conviction that is surer, and grace that is truer outside of the closet.

————

How have you seen relationships (of all kinds) redeemed after coming out or reconciling your attractions?

Where are some spaces in your life that feel easier knowing the grace of God in this area of your life (or where would you like that relief)?

How has your understanding of yourself and your relationship with Christ changed since you first wrestled with your sexuality?